Angel's Revenge Page 3

  Angel: You know the courts. It’s a whole bunch of legal bullshit, but it’s comin’. And like Dutch used to tell me, they can’t stop what they can’t see, so it’s best nobody know, feel me?

  DD: Felt. But speakin’ of Dutch, what was son really like?

  Angel (pauses, then laughs quietly): How many real gangstas you know?

  DD: Including myself? One.

  Angel (laughs at my quip): Well, dig yo, gangsta ain’t enough to make you Dutch ’cause papi is so much more. He had strings attached to the game like a puppet, and he controlled every move. Even now, three years later, niggas still makin’ records about this nigga, namin’ clothes after him…

  DD: Not to mention books.

  Angel: Oh, yeah, that Teri Woods chick? I respect her pen game. She’s real gangsta for puttin’ my man’s story out there. I read it. It was official.

  DD: But yo, one last question. If anybody knows, it’s you. We asked Rahman two years ago (see Don Diva July 2003 edition), but he evaded us. Do you think…?

  Angel (shouting): Fuck that bullshit! Fuck what you heard! My man ain’t dead! Them fake-ass, wannabe gangstas might want him to be, but he AIN’T! And until he come through, just know Angel gonna hold it down and rep my man and the streets!

  DD: You keep saying your man. Thought you were… you know?

  Angel: What? I eat fish? (chuckles) I’ve had my share of snapper, but let’s just say Dutch is my sweetest taboo.

  DD: Juicy, Juicy tell me…

  (The one-minute warning cut me off just when we were getting to the good shit.)

  DD: Well, one minute left, any last words?

  Angel: No doubt. To Roc, hold your head ’cause it’s me and you. To Goldilocks and Angela Hearn, one love. And to the streets, pick a side and ride or die ’cause the ride is ’bout to get rough. And let all them bitch-ass niggas know who’s runnin’ them streets for real. Angel’s baaaack, muthafuckas! Siempre.

  Rahman laid the magazine aside and rubbed his face. Angel definitely hadn’t changed and apparently thought he hadn’t either. But he had, and it made him wonder where that left the two of them. He knew what she was going to do if released from prison. Take back what they had lost. But he had a different mission—to clean up the streets.

  What happens when an irresistible force meets an immovable object? Well, the streets would soon find out.

  Rahman walked into FCI-Lewisburg’s chapel just as the Islamic call to prayer was being chanted.

  Hayya alas-Salah. Hayya-alal-Falah. Come to prayer, come to success. In Arabic, heard throughout speakers in the chapel, it represented the masjid for the Muslim inmates.

  Rahman was the prayer leader, better known as imam in Arabic. He led all the Muslim inmates in prayer and advised them on their personal issues from time to time. He prayed his two ra’kahs and then made his way to the podium.

  “As-Salaamu Alaikum,” he said in greeting to the forty-something Muslims sitting on the floor in lines of straight rows behind one another.

  “Alaikum As-Salaam,” the brothers replied in unison.

  Rahman surveyed the gathering of men before him. He knew many of the brothers had been stone-cold murderers, kingpins, pimps, and boss players. Now they all bowed to one God in perfect unity and harmony. Allah was truly the greatest.

  “All praises are due to Allah. We praise him, seek his help, and ask his forgiveness. I bear witness that there is no God but Allah, and that Muhammad is his servant and messenger,” Rahman began, then flipped open his Qur’an.

  “I want to read from Surah four, Ayat seventy-five. It says…” he began to recite the Qur’an in Arabic, his deep baritone caressing each syllable and his articulation punctuating the guttural sentences.

  “Wa Maa la-kum la tuqaatiluna sabili-llahi. Wal-Mustadina min ar-rijali Wan Nisaai Wal Wildan. Al-Latheena yaqulu-na Rabba-na Akhrij-na Min Hadihil. Paryati Zalimu Ahlu-ha Wa Hab la-na Min Ladun-ka Nasiraa.”

  Then he repeated the prayer in English.

  “And what is wrong with you that you fight not in the cause of Allah and for those who are weak, ill-treated, and oppressed amongst themselves, both men, women, and children, whose cry is: Lord rescue us from this town whose people are oppressors and raise for us, from you, one who will protect and raise for us, one who will help.”

  He closed the Qur’an and paused to let the words sink in.

  “This was a cry for liberation. Is this cry still not heard today? All around us, in every ghetto in America, brothers and sisters are crying, and yet the call continues to go unanswered. We in this room come from every part of the U.S. The North, West, South, and East, the inner cities, boondocks, and backcountry roads. We know that the ghetto is everywhere. People in society use this prayer every day, with or without understanding. But instead of calling on God, they call on the numbers man, the dope man, the liquor store, the strip club, or the corner bar. They call on anyone, anywhere, and anyway they can to escape the oppression being inflicted upon them.”

  Many of the brothers nodded in agreement.

  “But what is oppression? Is it just racist cops, politicians, and judges? Isn’t debt oppression? The type of debt that keeps us tied to two and three jobs tryin’ to come out of it? Isn’t the game oppression? It leaves a brother with only two options—jail or death. It’s a vicious cycle and where does it get us? Where are we now?” Rahman’s voice boomed.

  “Where are we now? Here. It gets us here. It gets our women in strip clubs. It gets our kids in group homes. Why do you think there are fences around the projects tall as the fences around maximum-security prisons? In prison, fences mean they don’t want you to get out. So, can it mean anything different around the projects? Oppression. The white man knew exactly what he was doing when he built the prisons and the projects. But Islam is the liberator. Not the nation of Islam, not the 5 percent of Islam, not Moorish science or nationalistic ideologies, but Islam. Sunni Islam, pure and simple.”

  Rahman paced in front of the brothers with his hands clasped behind his back.

  “Now some will tell you that Islam doesn’t liberate. Islam enslaves. Look at the Arabs on the east coast of Africa. They were doing the same thing the Europeans were doing on the west coast of Africa! To them I say, know the difference between liberator and conqueror. Many start out as liberators but become conquerors, and the Arabs were no different. This is when we lost our glory as Muslims. But I challenge you to find any religion that has liberated any country in the history of the world. Christianity? That is only a facade for Roman imperialism. Buddhism? No. Judaism? Stop playin’.” Rahman smiled and a few laughed quietly.

  “But Islam? Yes, yes, and yes again. This is history. So this is what we must take home to our families. Islam. Not as conquerors but as liberators. Teach them what they can do and they won’t need for what they don’t have. Lead by example, not by rhetoric, and they too shall follow. As-Salaamu Alaikum.”

  After Jum’ah, Akbar and Rahman walked the yard.

  “That was a beautiful khutbah, nephew. I taught you well,” Akbar joked. Rahman smiled.

  “All praises are due to Allah.”

  “Indeed. But, ah… you didn’t plan on speakin’ on that particular topic today, did you, Ock?” Akbar inquired knowingly.

  Rahman answered him with his eyes.

  “I noticed you weren’t using your index cards. So, I figured you were free-styling,” Akbar surmised, then added, “Got anything to do with that Don Diva magazine?”

  Rahman looked around the yard, formulating a response. The other inmates were indulging in recreational pursuits under the Pennsylvania sun, balling and lifting weights like they didn’t have a care in the world.

  “Something like that,” Rahman replied.

  Akbar nodded. “That’s why I showed it to you. So you’d know what’s waitin’ for you when you touch down.”

  “If I touch.”

  Akbar shrugged.

  “Allah is the best of planners, but He’s already set the stage for yo
ur return. How you gonna handle this Angel thing?”

  They lapped the yard several times before Rahman wanted to rest. They stopped and sat down.

  “What you mean, how? You know what we planned. Nothing will get in the way of that, Insha Allah.”

  “Insha Allah,” Akbar repeated. “Look, Rah. I’ve been watchin’ you for three years. Watchin’ you grow in Islam and watchin’ how your character has changed. You’re a beautiful brother, but nephew, that gangsta is still in you.”

  Rahman wanted to defend himself, but Akbar continued.

  “I’m not saying you frontin’ or you ain’t sincere. But we were born and trained to be what them streets made us. You, a gangsta. Me, I’m a grand master, but that’s a personal jihad within myself. Like you said today, the liberator or the conqueror. The liberator is Rahman, but the conqueror is One-eyed Roc, the cold-blooded killer and big money getter.”

  Rahman let Akbar’s words sink in before responding. “I hear you, Ock, but believe me, I’m ready.”

  “Are you?” Akbar shot back. “Because what we’re plannin’ to do is serious. It ain’t no game. People gonna pay the price.”

  “I know that.”

  “Well, what if one of those people is Angel? If you had to pull the trigger, could you look her in the face and pull it?”

  Rahman’s eyes locked with Akbar’s. It was a thought that had crossed his mind, but one he didn’t want to face.

  “Every Saul wants to be Paul,” Akbar philosophized. “You know how many cats get locked up and then wanna change the world? Crackheads wanna open up rehabs, trick niggas wanna respect black women, and killers wanna stop the violence. But one by one, they fail. They fail because when they see they can’t change the world, they join it. And I see it in you, Ock. You want to change Angel, don’t you? You think she’ll listen to you? Roll wit’ you on this?” Akbar questioned.

  “Insha Allah,” Rahman replied, not looking at Akbar.

  “And Young World, too? You brought him in. What if you have to take him out?”

  Akbar’s questions ripped away Rahman’s delusions one by one. Everyone he had ever loved, run the streets with, gotten money with, even killed with, and would’ve died for, could easily become his enemy. Not because they had changed, but because he had.

  He tried to tell himself that Angel and Young World would roll with him. After all, the plan wasn’t only to clean up the community but to make millions doing it. His plan was economic as well as social, political, and spiritual. But he knew deep down that he was fooling himself if he thought they’d just walk away from the addiction of street life, especially if their hearts were still truly in it.

  And if they didn’t walk away, what was he prepared to do?

  “Make no mistake, nephew. You’ve switched sides, not them. So think like a gangsta, but act like a Muslim. To beat a gangsta you got to know the mind of one. Because the question ain’t can you do them, but…” Akbar leaned closer to Rahman’s ear, “would they hesitate to do you?” Akbar stood up slowly and left Rahman with “As-Salaamu Alaikum, nephew. We’ll talk later. Insha Allah.”

  Rahman watched his mentor casually stroll off and disappear in the crowd.

  “Yo, nigga, I’m tellin’ you, that shit is followin’ us,” Young World said as he glanced in the rearview mirror of his CL 55. He had been constantly checking his rearview until he was sure that someone was tailing him.

  “Fuck you talkin’ ’bout, followin’ us? Ain’t nobody followin’ us. Nigga, you skitzin’,” responded Duke, World’s right-hand man and the only survivor of his original team.

  Duke hit the blunt and tried to pass it to World, who waved it off and made a right-hand turn. He didn’t want to smoke and cloud his already paranoid brain cells until he was sure what was behind him.

  “Watch, I told you, yo! That’s the fourth corner in a row they took after us. Paranoid, hell! Niggas think we slippin’ as it is!” Duke took a quick peep over his shoulder, weighing Young World’s theory. He reached under his seat and pulled out a Mac 11 machine gun, locked and loaded.

  “It’s probably Roll and them niggas he fuck wit’. Fuck this. At the next light, I’m wettin’ they whole shit. Fuck they think, shit is sweet?”

  “Naw, naw, chill. I got this,” World answered.

  He suddenly hit the accelerator and the CL’s AMG engine blurred like mercury as they jetted down the street. Whoever and whatever was behind them was left eight car lengths back as Young World whipped a quick right then fishtailed left, slinging Duke in his seat.

  “Fuck you runnin’ for?” Duke growled.

  Young World didn’t respond. Instead he quickly pulled into a darkened driveway and dropped the headlights. He then pulled out a .45 from his waist, looking over his shoulder.

  A few seconds later, the black BMW drove by. Young World backed out, engine kitten-silent. He had flipped the script and was now tailing them.

  “At the light, I’ma cut ’em off, see who these niggas are, and if they flinch…”

  Duke nodded. “Say no more.” As they approached the stoplight, Young World hit the gas and swerved around the BMW. Before the occupants of the BMW knew what was happening, Young World skidded up in front of them at a nose angle. Duke threw up the door and hopped out in one furious motion and threw the nozzle of the Mac in the face of the driver. The four passengers of the BMW screamed and ducked.

  “Yo, Ock! It’s Lana and some broads!” Duke hollered over his shoulder as he lowered the gun.

  “What the fuck is you doin’?” yelled World through the open passenger door. “You tryin’ to get killed or something?”

  The girls finally uncovered their eyes and looked up, visibly shaken and teary-eyed.

  “I’m sorry, World. I’m so, so sorry. God, you scared me. I’m sorry,” Lana whined from the driver’s seat.

  “Naw, you was gonna be sorry. Now you just crazy. I thought I told you I’d be back later?” World questioned, upset that Lana was out of position, especially in front of his man.

  “It… it… I’m sorry, baby, but I thought… Peaches said…” Lana stammered before World cut her off.

  “Peaches said what? Fuck that yellow bitch got to do with you followin’ me?”

  “Yellow, who?!” Peaches shouted from the rear passenger seat, getting some of her sass back. “Nigga, please. Don’t even go there, aiight!” Peaches said, rolling her eyes for extra emphasis.

  “Whatever, bitch. Mind your business. Lana, you listenin’ to Peaches now?”

  “She told me she saw Tawanna from Hillside in your car last week, and she said that’s where you was goin’,” Lana explained, getting more teary-eyed by the minute, not only from fright, but from embarrassment for getting caught trying to follow him.

  Duke laughed as Young World shook his head in aggravated amusement. He was on his way to a very important meeting with his connect, and all Lana could think about was some chickenhead he was fucking.

  “You muthafuckas got way too much time on your hands. I ain’t got time for this shit. Take your ass home and get all them crows out my car ’fore all y’all be walkin’!” World shouted.

  Lana nodded, wiping her eyes. “I’m sorry, okay? I was silly, I—”

  World cut her off as Duke got back in the CL.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. Just be naked when I get home,” he said as he pulled off, giving her lonely, bitch-ass girlfriends something to talk about.

  Young World turned the corner and sped off. Duke bust out laughing.

  “Yo, son, you is slippin’! You ain’t even peep your own car was followin’ us!”

  “Everybody got black BMs, yo. How I’m supposed to know every BM in Newark?”

  “Shorty must really got you on a leash, my nigga!”

  “Fuck you,” Young World replied with a chuckle. “That’s how it is when a nigga know how to lay good dick, son. Shit, I should get outta the drug game and pimp hos for a living.”

  “Nigga, fuck around and be broke fucking with th
ese hos out here,” Duke joked, making them both laugh as they headed to Paramus, New Jersey.

  Even though Young World was laughing, the situation was far from funny. It had been three years since Dutch’s disappearance and already his empire had split into several factions. Young World was young, hungry, and ruthless. However, he had stepped into the shoes of a man whose shoes no one could ever fill.

  Dutch had started with a team that had roots in every part of Newark, which made it easier to control. Young World’s team came from Hawthorne and Prince streets. So when Dutch disappeared, every team went for itself, and Young World had his hands full just keeping his territory under control.

  Added to that was the fact that the police were seeing blood and weren’t taking any prisoners. The police murder rate doubled while the criminal murder rate tripled. All together, the city was thrown into a frenzy. The mayor empowered several new antidrug teams to combat the threat, imposed curfews in certain areas, and kept the block so hot that where money once flowed, it now trickled. After eighteen months, Young World lost major chunks of northern New Jersey. He had won the crown but getting down for it was another story.

  Lana walked into the house and slammed the door. She felt like she had really played herself. It wasn’t like her to second-guess Young World, so she couldn’t for the life of her figure out why she had done it tonight. True, Peaches was one of her closest friends, but shit, World was her man.

  Maybe Peaches want my man, her mind told her. But she dismissed the thought as crazy.

  Or was it?

  Who wouldn’t want Young World? He was rich, cool, and fine. His babylike dimples melted into the cinnamon texture of his masculine face, making his grins sexy and mischievous. He kept the crisp temper fade with waves that spun 360 degrees like the nigga on the Duke wave grease box. That, and he took good care of her.

  Peaches, on the other hand, was a college dropout turned secretary and didn’t have a man. She had tried to get with Duke, but once he fucked her, he lost interest. Not to mention Peaches was always trying to put it in Lana’s head that Young World was no good. She and Peaches had been friends since they were eleven. Two years later, Lana met Young World. They were just thirteen.